Insomnia
by SarahSwan7
Summary: I never really imagined that the Spooks would get a good night's sleep... I will be doing one of these for every character in a random order.
1. Chapter 1 - Danny

The tap in the kitchen was drumming a steady beat of water. Danny didn't remember having not tightened it properly, but then he was feeling restless and careless and hardly ever noticed how when Zoe had been here the bin was always emptied and the dishes were washed because she always, _always_ took care of things.

The lounge was a dark smudge in the night, with a hint of moonlight on the carpet guiding Danny's footsteps to the kitchen. The clock told that it was just after three am, but this was to be expected. It had been less than a week and he had woken consistently at around this time.

He loosened the tap and let some water spill into an abandoned glass on the side. The water was cold through the thin glass, refreshing, but Danny didn't take a sip, his eyes catching the photo perched on the shelf above the oven.

A picture of him and Zoe, her arm around his shoulders, both grinning for the camera. Her hair was shorter, honey strands just beginning to brush her jaw, and her eyes were bright and her smile cheerful. Danny couldn't remember what it felt like to hold the expression that he had in that photo.

They had both been so happy.

Danny didn't even notice that he was clenching the glass in his hand, the water shaking. He didn't feel the cracks run along the sides of the glass, his attention only snapping back when a shard of broken glass clattered into the sink. He loosened his grip, letting the whole useless thing fall into the sink, the water draining, mixed with blood. Danny unleashed another stream of water from the tap to wash his hand, but he was hardly aware of that pain.

He cursed under his breath as he watched the blood bloom and wondered if he'd need stitches. He'd always been pretty hopeless about assessing the seriousness of a wound. He got beaten up pretty badly once and thought he might be dying, but only had cuts and bruises. Tom had smirked and Harry nodded curtly but Zoe made him a cup of tea and did the washing up for a week so that he could rest.

It was so easy with Zoe. She always knew exactly what to do.

Danny fumbled for some bandages in the cupboard beneath the sink, vaguely aware that she had assigned them to that position upon moving in. Tearing a strip of the material off with his teeth, Danny wound the bandage around his hand, looking at the clock. Still a few minutes past three. He knew that if he returned to bed he wouldn't be able to salvage a decent night's sleep.

Awake in the middle of the night, with not one person in the world to care. Everyone else was contently sleeping.

He reached for the photo, placing it face down on the coffee table. He tightened the tap. He watched a spot of blood seep through the bandage but didn't apply another.

Danny went back to bed but did not sleep well; not for many weeks after she had gone.


	2. Chapter 2 - Jo

The apartment was quiet when Jo finally arrived back after the most hectic first day she could have possibly imagined.

She'd had the lot – terrorists, snipers, fake identities, reports, undercover, trauma, and flirting.

At least, she _thought_ it may have been flirting.

It had never even occurred to Jo that joining the Service might mean breaking ties with people she knew. Her flatmate Kelly was snoring on the sofa (Jo could hear the sound from the hallway), probably with an empty bottle of wine propped up on the coffee table. It had been something of a tradition for them to get hideously drunk and tell each other secrets. Fine when it comes to boyfriends, but not ideal when concerning national security.

When a guy she had just met called Zaf offered her a room in his flat, the only thing she could think to say was 'I'll think about it' because she didn't know him but wanted to be polite and still keep the offer open if she needed it. And when Adam (not Nick Harding) had caught her flat-hunting and she told him about Zaf's offer, he had told her to take it, saying there were plenty of times in the first year when she wouldn't want to be alone.

But she wasn't alone – she had Kelly. And Jo and Kelly were good friends, and Jo knew that she could cut back on drinking and bite her tongue when it came to work conversations. But she also knew that she was making excuses because she was scared to dive in at the deep end and become a spy straight away, working with spies all day and coming home to a spy who flirts.

_Was he flirting?_ The question still rattled around Jo's head as she cleaned her teeth. She had woken Kelly and dragged her to her own bed because it was past midnight - the whole team had stayed to find out how Nazim and his family were doing before they were being driven up to Ireland tomorrow, a new life waiting.

Jo concentrated on scraping her teeth with the minty bubbles, blocking out the image of Nazim's wife face as she heard the gunshots from the room in which her son was being held. It scared Jo how that woman's life could have ended right there with the death of her son, a tiny young boy with a life already disrupted by his wrongly accused father.

Jo wondered if she would ever be in that position, where a friend or family member would be put in danger in that way. The thought made her shudder.

_But was he flirting?_ Jo was using this trivial question to block out the doubts that were beginning to crowd her. She had rolled into bed but a car alarm outside was loud enough to stop her from sleeping. Then again, she didn't resent the sound - she had used that very noise to alert her new colleagues in the safe house that they were about to be attacked.

The sound of Kelly's snoring suddenly cut through the wall. Jo rolled over onto her side and stared at the pile of clothes splayed across her floor, wondering what to wear for another day at work tomorrow.

Work. As a spy. The words were still completely unusual. She had always been 'Joanna the Journalist' and had loved her work as a writer, but awake in the middle of the night with only the car alarm and Kelly's snores for company, Jo knew that life was behind her now. She would say yes to the room and yes to this new life and have to accept that everything she knew wouldn't be the same anymore.

Even though Jo was new to this and had a fair share of doubts and confusions, the thought of moving in with someone like Zaf had made her smile.


	3. Chapter 3 - Fiona

Fiona had got into a bad habit, and it was proving particularly difficult to break.

She knew that worrying about Adam was something she shouldn't do. Not because he wasn't in danger – he was every single day – but worrying about this made Fiona want to make him stay tucked in bed and not have to put on a suit and stride into work and save some lives.

Everyone at the Grid had always seen the better side of Adam – cunning, charming, brilliant, all the things that had initially attracted her to him. Back when she was Amelia who became Amal who became Fiona. Three separate identities and the latter she wished to stick with. Fiona had _him_.

No-one knew just how many scars he held, physical and emotional. No-one saw him so torn apart by exhaustion that Fiona sometimes found him sprawled out on the sofa, shoes still on. No-one knew that sometimes he drank too much coffee to pretend to have energy he didn't possess.

And all of this made her love him a little bit more, because every single day he would get up and push aside anything that would jeopardise his ability to work.

But he wasn't invincible. And Fiona didn't know how she could help if the day came that Adam Carter got broken irreparably.

Fiona drew her knees to her chest and flicked the TV channel to another mindless show; the selection was pretty thin at this late hour. Adam had been undercover for a week in Istanbul and he was due to call over two hours ago. Fiona knew, of _course_ she did, that there could be simple communication issues, but she also knew that a failed communication could mean that something was dreadfully wrong.

Laughter erupted from the TV and Fiona winced, turning down the volume, conscious that Wes was sleeping. She shifted off the sofa to stretch her legs, moving to the fridge to find something to drink as she waited for Adam's call. One of his beers was lurking at the back, supposedly hidden. This always made Fiona smile. They were both spies and could spot microscopic cameras hidden in ceilings, but he still thought that the bottle of beer behind the packet of grapes would evade her view. She smirked, popping off the lid and returning to the lounge.

The sound of the phone jolted her awake. Fiona winced at the fact she had nodded off, the beer now warm in her hand. She flicked off the TV and reached for the phone.

"Go to bed, Fi," he said. "I love you."

Fiona didn't need to hear anything else. "I love you too." She replaced the phone and breathed properly for the first time that evening, shrugging off the blanket tucked around her and vacating the sofa to go and steal some sleep. She could at least be appreciative of the lack of duvet-hogging she would receive from Adam that night.


	4. Chapter 4 - Tom

The house was cold and unwelcoming and Tom was already desperate to leave, despite having only arrived an hour ago. The cabbie had been friendly but Tom wasn't really one for trivial discussion and only offered grunts in response to his remarks about the weather. He even joked that Tom might be out to commit a murder, so late was the hour and so isolated the destination and so frozen was his nature. At that, Tom's frown had deepened and the cabbie kept chatting to a minimum. He had grazed infuriatingly close to the truth, though. That was what Tom had been like.

Not anymore.

He offered a strained smile as he handed the notes to the cabbie and watched him drive back up the gravelly path effortlessly, leaving him stranded with a hooting owl in the distance for company. Tom pulled his coat tighter around his chest and shivered, pacing up to the front door and fumbling for the keys in his pocket, fingers cold and temporarily inactive due to the brisk chill the night provided.

It soon became apparent that being inside wasn't much better. The whole place was tiny and quaint, which in polite terms meant boring. Then again, when you're suddenly unemployed and lacking cash there isn't a great selection of housing on offer. Tom was at least thankful that the theme wasn't minimalist snobbery which he was all too familiar with in the profession.

Ah, _the profession_. A term that Tom would now have to use in the past tense. He wondered what he would do with the endless days ahead, but pushed that thought aside hurriedly by exploring the house.

The kitchen was poorly stocked but Tom had noted a small grocery store in the village on the way to the house. There was a bathroom with a patchwork shower curtain and rough, orange carpet. Two bedrooms, both small, and a room tucked away behind the lounge that Tom knew he'd probably end up using as a study. Although, a study for what work he had not decided and didn't want to dwell on.

Glancing through the kitchen window, Tom saw a small stretch of grass which he assumed to be a garden, which he instantly knew he would leave in its current state of dishevelled clusters of weeds and grass as high as his knees.

He checked his watch efficiently and noted that the hands were just skimming midnight. Tom rolled his rucksack off his shoulders and propped it up neatly on the sofa, moving aside some paisley green cushions. He hadn't bothered to take off his shoes and tiny pieces of twigs and gravel chunks had gathered under his feet and patterned the carpet.

This was home. And it felt absolutely suffocating.

Danny and Zoe would be at their apartment, probably sleeping, probably with sufficient amounts of alcohol inside them. Would they miss him? The watery smile Zoe had given him suggested that she would, but in a few weeks the cool Adam Carter would probably ease the blow of his absence with his grinning and encouraging shoulder-clapping and calling everyone 'mate' like they had been his best friends for years.

Ah, that bastard. Tom hated Six and he hated guys who revelled in the fact that they were good at what they did, and Adam Carter was a combination of both of these evils. Tom knew that he had been one of the best officers the Service may have had in a while, but he never showed it. He was conscious of keeping his face neutral and not indulging in expressing much emotion because it never did any good, and then bastards like Carter would prey upon your weaknesses.

He probably had Tom's bloody desk and all.

Harry would be in his office of course; he practically lived there. Ruth would be big-eyed and hesitantly trying to approach him. Tom knew that he didn't truly hate them, no matter how hard he could try. A tiny part of him even hoped they might be happy because Harry was a good man and Tom knew it, no matter how many times they had clashed, and Ruth was one of those genuine people who was rather difficult to dislike.

Of course, he had jeopardised an operation and knew that the end of his career was his fault. But after the Herman Joyce incident and Adam's cunning rivalry, Tom was having too many doubts and knew that eventually they would come flooding to the surface.

He had crawled onto the sofa, staring at his shoes. Sleek leather. Classy worker.

Unemployed and alone. Questioning everything.

Tom kept his eyes on the watch secured around his wrist for the most part of that night - the time he had was the only thing he could be certain of anymore.


	5. Chapter 5 - Erin

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who had read/reviewed so far; I'm really enjoying writing this. They've all been a bit gloomy so far though, so if any of you would prefer a couple of light-hearted chapters I'm happy to write some!**

Dimitri had pulled her into a hug just before leaving and told her to get some rest, but Erin knew tonight was be one of many sleepless nights.

When he left, she locked the door behind him before checking the back door too, feeling a sudden urge to ensure that her home was safe. All the windows were shut, the blind drawn, curtains pulled tightly across. Erin took a few seconds to assess the state of the lounge - there were too many coffee mugs scattered on the table and Rosie's toys littered around the carpet. The whole place screamed of disarray and lack of control which Erin tried so hard to recover that she was on her knees, tidying away the dolls and colouring books and carrying the mugs to put by the sink, ready for the dishwasher tomorrow. Erin always wanted to make sure that her house looked the part even if she was having trouble with staying composed.

She paced back up the stairs as quietly as she was able and went back to her room where Rosie was still sprawled out, asleep on Erin's bed. Erin moved to her side and knelt down, smoothing a strand of her brown hair that had fallen across her face, and didn't want to think of what she would be feeling if her daughter hadn't been brought back to her.

Juggling MI5 with a child was something that every single person said Erin wouldn't be able to handle. She was younger than most on the team and sometimes people underestimated her, but Erin knew that she was a capable leader and had all the necessary skills to be an effective officer. But still, people doubted her. Senior figures looked down on her. Even her mother suggested she worked fewer hours, but Erin made it work and balanced her family with her career and thought that it would always go to plan.

It didn't today.

Erin would be naive to think that there wouldn't be difficult days with terrorists and bombs and guns – she had worked in the Service long enough to figure out that these were typical ingredients of a day at MI5 – but it always happened to someone else. Another family lost their father or brother or daughter: never her. It had never been so close to home before.

And so Erin cried silently for the first time in years, careful not to wake her safe, sleeping child, and wondered if her career was ever going to be at the expense of her family.


	6. Chapter 6 - Tariq

**And another bonus chapter (because it's Friday!) Tried to make this one a little lighter. Thanks for reading!**

Tariq was alone in the Grid for the first time since he had arrived at Thames House. It had passed a decent hour at which to be working but the firewalls were playing up and Tariq was adamant to sort it before going home and wishful in hoping it wouldn't take all night to remedy.

Tariq spun round in his swivel chair and clicked a pen between his teeth. He didn't actually mind being alone – the endless software was suitable company – and besides, he wasn't exactly the best of friends with his new colleagues who more often than not didn't acknowledge his presence.

He was having particular problems with Ros who couldn't pass his station without a scathing look at his clothing choice or a sarky comment about how he was too young to even be here, but Tariq knew he was good at what he did and that Ros was just a bit cold. He didn't let other people's attitudes about him bother him - Tariq had always been the geek that people sometimes laughed at, but he found it laughable that they were more often than not ignorant to the wonders of technology.

Wonders of technology, coupled with severe downsides - Tariq swore under his breath as his screen started fading, replaced by stream of codes. His fingers flew across the keyboard and he chewed his lip, praying that this coding didn't have some sort of time limit.

Finally, the computer seemed to regain some consciousness and Tariq breathed, leaving it temporarily to stick a box of noodles with teriyaki sauce in the microwave. He had never really been one for food that you couldn't eat whilst at a computer and didn't envy the fact that his colleagues were probably enjoying a pub roast after a particularly gruelling week. The guy before him, Malcolm, had been something of a technical genius and Tariq had heard nothing but rave reviews about his predecessor. This made him more determined to work hard and if that meant sitting in front of computers all night then Tariq was happy to oblige, because he loved the opportunities he had at MI5 and he loved computers and actually making a difference, even when many people had told him he would never make it.

Technology was something that Tariq had just always been obsessed with. His friends thought he was weird. His parents thought it was a phase. When he told the careers advisor at school that he wanted to work with technology, she had kindly suggested opting for a modern foreign language instead and applying for uni.

Even though the heating had snapped off in the Grid at this hour and the computers were still playing up, Tariq knew there was no place he'd rather be.

Then he checked his calendar and realised he was working the early shift tomorrow, and suddenly the thought of being in the office this late was somewhat less appealing.


	7. Chapter 7 - Ruth

It was her last day of this life and Ruth couldn't bear to let her eyes close on it, not even for a second.

The dock was freezing, a brisk wind whipping the sails of stray boats and pulling Ruth's hair into her face. She shifted a little closer to Zaf in an attempt to steal some warmth. She didn't want to think too much about how he gently slipped his arm around her shoulder and the way her cheek rested against the leather jacket she had seen him wear nearly every day, because then she remembered that this was the last time she would ever be near him.

It wasn't just losing Zaf, though. He was so kind and gentle and funny, but Ruth also couldn't bear to bid goodbye to anyone else - Malcolm's shared love of knowledge and Jo's pure goodness and even Ros, who after all of this Ruth couldn't bring herself to hate. Ros was MI5's future, they all were, and Ruth didn't want any of their memories to be tainted.

Then she dared to think about Harry, the one dinner they had shared and how she had never felt more content in her life. Then she thought about turning him down after knowing that everyone knew and the look on his face that told he was hurt from her words, and she couldn't bear it.

Ruth turned her face into Zaf's arm and bit her lip hard, gazing across the watery view, London towering in the background. When she had first moved here she was terrified – it was so action-packed and if you blinked you'd miss something terrible or incredible, and whichever way it way it was completely unfamiliar to Ruth. But then she'd met the people at work and forgot about her doubts, finally feeling a part of a team.

Today, she lost them.

It felt horrible to look upon a sunrise with such loathing, so beautiful was the sight, especially as it cast gentle brushstrokes of light across the waves in the dock, rippling off the sails of the drifting boats. But Ruth watched the sun creep a little higher and higher and willed it to stay down, to neglect this new day which would take her away from everything she knew and loved, and everyone that she loved too.

A boat's horn sounded, loudly, piercing the cool morning air. Ruth didn't move an inch.

"You awake?" Zaf's voice was soft. Ruth moved her neck a little, feeling the ache of where it had been resting against the concrete.

"Didn't sleep," she confessed, moving her gaze to Zaf but not meeting his eyes, not wanting to know it was the last time that she could. Instead her eyes skimmed the concrete, grey and ugly, filling her line of vision.

"No. Neither did I," said Zaf.

Ruth moved her eyes to his face this time and wished for nothing else than to not have to move from here, even though the docks were freezing and London was terrifying and she loved every little thing about it now, and wouldn't get another chance to savour it.


	8. Chapter 8 - Adam

**A/N: Thanks for continued reading/reviewing. This is inspired by the recent weather in England!**

The night was sweltering and insistent on keeping Adam awake, no matter how wide the window was open or how many glasses of iced water he poured down his throat. It was one of those horrific days in England where the Sun finally took control over the clouds and shone relentlessly, and this day was blending in a consistently hot week that was the country's way of warning that this was definitely summer, and that you should make the most of it because there'll be snow by September.

It reminded Adam of baked days in Damascus and nights where the sky was so clear that the moon glowed almost as strongly as its fiery counterpart. The weather was something about Syria that had been burned into his brain; it was always scorching and if you'd packed a jumper you'd be better off trading it on the market for a fan or a flask of cool liquid.

Adam hadn't minded the Sun on his face – something about the sensation just felt like living – but he was indoors now and the air conditioning had packed in, overworked from the past week. Adam kicked the duvet from his feet and savoured the feeling of the air propelled from an electric fan in the corner of his room brushing his ankles.

At least in Damascus, he had company more beautiful than any sunny day.

Adam threw the duvet completely off and onto the floor, rolling onto his back, all too aware of the smallness of the mattress and how he wouldn't share one again, and even in this heat he wouldn't mind being with another person because they wouldn't sleep either as the heat would remind them of Damascus too, and then they'd just talk the night away with words dissolving the closeness of the heat and laughs brighter than any day and eyes so alive with companionship.

Adam forced his eyes closed, the only feeling left within him a sharp ache as he twisted his wedding ring round his finger with his thumb, palm coated in sweat from the heat and the exhaustion of tears he hadn't even realised had fallen.


	9. Chapter 9 - Calum

Calum had always been the smug kid, the smart arse, the sarcastic one, and was coming to realise how unnecessary it was in a line of work so serious.

He'd had no right criticising Tariq – it was just Calum's instinct to say something smart and cutting in order to provoke people. It wasn't bullying or teasing, it was just testing people out – that was his excuse anyway. Tariq had snapped though, and Calum had instantly felt bad: he knew he was a decent bloke really. Although, in their line of work, affording decency was something of a luxury, and the fact that Tariq had the good grace to grin at him later, warning him to avoid a mugging on his way home, showed Calum that Tariq's easygoing nature was rather admirable. He was grateful to have been forgiven.

Calum would have cut back on his harshness if he knew that a mere twelve hours later, his friend would be dead.

Anyone who had experienced something traumatic like a car crash always said it happened in slow motion – of course, Calum had snorted at the notion. But watching his friend stumble from a taxi just metres ahead, connect with the ground, choke for breath... it could only have been seconds but Calum felt like he had spend hours of his life there, trying to help Tariq who was already beyond help, desperately struggling to pound the life back into him but unable to hear breathing when he leant his ear to Tariq's mouth.

He had called the ambulance, hugging his knees as he sat on the kerb, unable to tear his eyes away from his dead friend strewn out on the pavement, with not one person glancing over in concern. It was a late night in London and no-one was going to stop for a second to see if the man on the ground was dead or alive, because they had places to be and people to see and wouldn't know that the corpse in the street helped to protect their ungrateful lives.

Calum pounded the pavement with a fist, feeling the hurt and the blood trickling across his knuckles. The gesture was petulant but it felt good to release his anger on himself. Earlier that day he had accused Tariq of behaving childishly – "Woah, what are you getting out your pram for? I'm the one who took the kicking" – and now he felt nothing but immature, sulking on the pavement for his wrongdoings against a man who deserved to be alive. His little digs and jibes felt like nothing when he was saying them, and usually people just rolled their eyes. But Tariq was the kind of guy that was up for some banter but was genuine enough to tell you if you were pissing him off – he had put Calum in his place, and rightly so.

At least Tariq hadn't died thinking that Calum couldn't stand him, because the truth was quite the opposite – Calum was somewhat jealous of Tariq's determination and passion, and felt a little bit honoured to have worked with someone so skilled.

He'd gone in the ambulance, answering the nurse's questions sharply, unable to conjure up the effort to be polite. He didn't have to wait for Tariq to be seen to know what the doctor with the frown would tell him.

Calum had already rung Harry, who told him to go home and rest. The very idea seemed utterly laughable, so he dragged the hours of the night out after escaping the hospital by buying a coffee and pacing around London, willing for his mind to forget Tariq's face and lifeless form just for a little while so he could maybe even enjoy the evening; as absurd as it sounded, the night was clear and alive with stars, and Calum felt it would be selfish to not make the most of it.

He parked himself on a bench down a windy path where there were no other pedestrians and cursed himself and his petty squabbles and his attempts to seem better than everyone else. It would stop now.

When Calum woke from the roar of the pub across the road and checked his watch, he knew that he should go home because that was the norm - but he also knew that the mere half hour of sleep he had claimed tucked up on the bench, the cold iron biting his legs, was the most sleep he was going to get on the night that he had lost his friend.


	10. Chapter 10 - Zoe

"Damn. Damn damn damn _damn_."

The rain was pounding down harder now as Zoe hopped off the bus, her bag under one arm and a broken umbrella clasped in her hand. She had hoped that an evening in May would be dry and bright, not cloudy and rainy and truly horrible.

Agreeing to take the late shift was a bad idea, as were her choice of shoes - Zoe almost stumbled on a piece of uneven paving slab and sacrificed her folder for maintaining her balance, watching her papers scatter and stick to the rain-covered paving slabs. On her hands and knees, surrendering her umbrella to the wind by pressing it beneath one arm and flinching as it managed to launch itself inside out for the fifth time on that particular journey, Zoe collected the ruined papers in her arms and scurried along the street as quickly as she was able, never being so thrilled to see Thames House.

It was an effort and a half to find her key pass and balance her bag and folder and dripping umbrella. Zoe dropped all of her gear under her desk and ran a hand through her soaked hair. No-one seemed to be here, thank goodness, and she wondered if she had time to change into the spare clothes in her locker before starting her gruelling shift in which she had to sort through her now-soaked paperwork.

Zoe crept to the lockers and changed as quickly as she was able, discarding her sodden clothes to rest on the radiator, and snuck back to the Grid.

"Did you walk?"

Zoe hadn't even noticed he was here. "No, I got the bus, but my umbrella broke. And then I dropped all my paperwork," she explained hurriedly, sounding so childish.

"Let's sort through it." Tom plucked the still-dripping folder from her desk and started peeling the pages apart.

"Tom, you should go home. I've got the late shift."

"It'll take less time with two pairs of hands," he said matter-of-factly, not moving his eyes from the folder.

Zoe ran her hand through her hair and perched on her chair, gathering some of the papers and smiling gratefully.

...

A few hours later Zoe caved and went for the kettle, pouring herself a boiling mug of coffee and plunking it amongst the paperwork. Tom had left a while ago – Zoe insisted that he should attempt some sleep at such an hour – and although the papers were now drying, their edges crinkling, Zoe still had to sort through them all, reading for filing bright and early tomorrow morning.

She took a sip of the coffee and felt the hotness spreading down her throat, the warmth leaching into her hands, and was grateful for the warmth of the Grid compared to the chilled street. The rain was still drumming the roof, and the occasional rumble of thunder made Zoe flinch.

As one am crawled past the clock she considered going home to sleep but the paperwork coaxed her to stay: she compromised with a nap at her desk. But then at 3am when a fresh ripple of thunder jolted through the building, Zoe jerked awake, her arm lurching out in shock at the sound and destroying the perfectly balanced pile of papers which she had diligently been organising for hours.

"Damn. Damn damn damn _damn_."


	11. Chapter 11 - Connie

**A/N: This chapter marks the halfway point for this series – hope you like it!**

Connie didn't move an inch, legs firmly in front of her, back straight, cup of tea in hand. It didn't matter than anyone who passed looked at her with pure loathing. They didn't know anything about her, just that she must be worthy of these stares because she killed Ben Kaplan.

She very nearly got away with that one.

Connie wouldn't lie in saying that it was pretty, and she never really had a taste for blood despite what people said. Blood had to be shed, but very rarely was it all over her hands - not just metaphorically this time.

If she hadn't killed him, he'd be in the Grid today, trying to figure out what the hell Tiresias was with the rest of the team.

His body would be in the mortuary, twenty six years of age and lifeless.

Day and night seem as one when in a cell – Connie discovered this pretty quickly. She didn't harbour a childlike fear of closing her eyes and being absorbed by darkness; rather, she didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing of her exhaustion. She wasn't young and full of energy anymore – the Service had sapped that from her years ago.

The tea here was just about drinkable, warming her hands which had so recently been covered in cold blood. She may have betrayed this country, but at least they had decent beverages.

Connie wondered about the Team and allowed a tiny smirk to play with the corners of her mouth. Very soon, Viktor and Harry would be sitting down to a game of one-upmanship, a match which Connie longed to be able to witness.

The guard who had brought her the tea was wearing a watch that told Connie the time was brushing eleven pm. It would not surprise her if Lucas were to still be pacing the Grid at this hour.

It was a shame, really. A kid with that much potential having his life ruined. Oh, yes. Because of Connie.

A damn shame.

Rosalind would be there too, probably. The guilty don't often sleep, and that one had committed her fair share of atrocities. Perhaps that's why Connie liked her so much.

She was demurely sipping her third cup of tea when her visitor arrived early the next morning. Connie had studied every corner of this MI5 holding centre and concluded that it was thoroughly boring - at least her interrogation at Nemworth would liven things up a little.

She fixed her eyes on his face in a terrifying stare which she had mastered after years in the Service.

"I know you. George Redman, counter espionage."

His words were boring, causing Connie to turn her head away in disinterest.

"You'll be charged with treason-"

"And the murder of Ben Kaplan, yes" she said matter-of-factly. _Tell me something I don't know, _she thought bitterly.

She needed to wriggle free of this mess and thought that killing Ben would be the way to do so.

But now she was on her way to life imprisonment, and a dead boy lay in the mortuary of MI5.


	12. Chapter 12 - Harry

"_Hi Catherine, it's Dad. I, erm, I suppose you're at work. Just wanted to say that, erm, well I'm just checking in really and er, would be nice to have dinner soon. You and your brother. Unfortunately I don't have a number for him at the moment but erm you could say hello for me and... well, I know you look out for him. So er, well I hope to see you soon. Okay, bye."_

His voice was shaky and his words so vague, so horribly vague to his own daughter. Harry was adamant to not reveal his fear to Catherine, but he felt awful for pretending everything was fine when he genuinely thought that her breezy answer phone response was the last time he would hear her voice.

For one horrible second, later on that awful day, he was glad that John Bateman had died so he could live and repair the relationship with his daughter.

And then Harry rubbed a hand across his face again and cursed himself and this lousy business and what it did to people who could have been so much better.

John Bateman might not have had the strongest moral code, but it was more reasonable than many of the people Harry had encountered over the years. But when he was Lucas North, he was infinitely better and stronger and wiser than so many others. He had Tom's authority and Adam's instincts and was like a son to Harry.

And now his body was on the street, crushed and alone and finally broken beyond any form of repair.

When Towers phoned late that evening Harry was on the rooftop of The Grid. Sleep was something of a past memory since Lucas had morphed back into John and Harry knew it would be futile attempting to savage some precious rest when his mind had so many other things to contemplate.

Towers had told him to prepare for life after the Service, and Harry couldn't honestly pinpoint the emotion he felt at the news. Anger, at being thrown out after so many years? Sadness that this life was ending? Or relief that he wouldn't be responsible for any more deaths?

Harry recognised one particular feeling, though – a loathing of the Service. Feelings like that had caused Tom Quinn to crash and burn. He was living somewhere out in the countryside with Christine now, who was also miraculously salvaged from the carnage caused by the Service. Harry felt a twinge of jealousy at their normal life.

He turned around too quickly, sensing someone behind him. Lucas, stepping out of the shadows. John, screaming for help.

It was Ruth, wearing that look of concern.

"Who was that?"

"William Towers." Harry's throat was dry. He knew he would end up telling Ruth what had happened eventually – why delay?

"There's going to be a full enquiry about what's happened. It seems I may not be here for much longer," Harry said as calmly as he could, wishing he hadn't seen how her eyebrows furrowed in concern and her eyes widened in shock.

"Harry, I'm-" Ruth couldn't find the words but Harry was glad to not have to hear them.

"You should go home; it's late," he said brusquely, turning away to face the London skyline which was bustling for his attention. It was rude and arrogant and discourteous to turn away from a friend, especially Ruth, but Harry couldn't think of the words to say.

Ruth's footsteps died away behind him. Harry read the text again from Catherine before placing his phone in his coat pocket. He was having dinner with his daughter next week.

Lucas North was dead.

His name wouldn't even reach the memorial glass.


	13. Chapter 13 - Colin

"Seven across... why can't I figure you out?" Colin muttered to himself quietly, tapping his biro against his teeth. He considered asking for help but the surveillance van was lacking a willing audience - Zaf was asleep and Jo had hopped out to buy more coffee. Colin sighed, prising a doughnut from the box to take his mind off this damn crossword.

Surveillance wasn't too bad, and anyway Colin accepted most tasks with a nod and a cheery smile. Even though it was pitch black and only the foxes loitering around rubbish bins were active at this hour, it didn't really seem like much of a chore to continue watching the screens. Then again, Colin had spent many nights watching videos on computer hacking and reading books about technology and so one night of missed sleep wasn't going to do him a lot of damage.

It was 2am now and the suspect they were watching hadn't moved an inch since lunchtime the previous day. Colin re-adjusted one of the screens and picked up the newspaper again, staring at the crossword until his eyes went bleary.

Jo tugged open the door of the van, bearing gifts of takeaway coffee in steaming paper cups. Colin accepted his latte gratefully.

"Sorry Colin, they didn't have any Danish pastries. I got you a croissant instead." Jo handed him the paper bag but he didn't move his hand to accept it.

"Croissant!" Colin exclaimed, scribbling the word into the last empty box. "Of course, that's the typical French breakfast item. Of course, of course." Jo smiled indulgently at him and Colin blushed a little at having exposed his joy of the crossword in such an enthusiastic manner.

"Who said something about croissants?" Zaf mumbled, half awake from the sounds of Jo's arrival and Colin's excitable outburst.

Colin tore the croissant in two and handed Zaf a half, triumphantly placing down the newspaper and moving his eyes back to the screens.


	14. Chapter 14 - Ros

**Inspired by the look on Ros' face at the start of 8.4.**

Her hands were shaking although it certainly wasn't the first time she'd fired a shot. It was however, the first time that a friend had been on the receiving end.

The whole room or just two lives? The decision was based upon whether her finger strayed to the trigger and she only had a few seconds to make up her mind. Obviously, professionalism practically forced her to release the bullet but those pesky personal feelings made her hesitate. It was perhaps the first time Ros had ever seen Jo look so certain about anything that made her fire. As cruel as it was, Jo knew she had to die and Ros knew she had to be the one to do it.

If it was right, then why couldn't Ros stop herself from shaking as Jo gasped her last snatches of breath on the floor? It seemed horrible that the body of a manipulative killer was partnered with one of a strong young woman who was finally having her talents realised.

Ruth had cried, although that could have been predicted. Harry had shut himself in his office. Lucas' Boston beauty sent flowers, although flowers die and Ros had always hated that particular gesture.

She was numb.

She didn't want to talk to any of them. Then again, even if she had the courage Ros doubted her ability to think of the right words.

5am, without fail. Her face. The nod. Ros' finger lingering on the trigger before pulling it, the shot juddering the room and the gasps of the people around ringing in her ears.

Ros' eyes snapped open but not before she'd relived her friend taking her last breath, sprawled out on the floor, her blood spilt to save lives. Barely thirty and dead.

Jo had been the one to die when Ros knew her life had far less worth, and it was completely unfair.


	15. Chapter 15 - Lucas

The first night back brought him the best sleep he'd had in eight years.

The second night was too warm and the mattress felt too foreign to be comfortable.

On the third night, the nightmares came.

It was gradual, at first. A snatch of a memory, or the sting of an old wound. Any noise outside sounded like the door of his cell being opened. Even a whisper of wind would wake him, but then at least he was awake and not drowning in a dream – although, being alive and awake felt so surreal it might as well have been drowning too.

After a week, he woke up screaming.

Since that night, he dropped his pillow on the floor and lay stretched out on the carpet because it felt familiar. The carpet was rough and irritated his skin but if he squeezed his eyes shut tight enough, Lucas could imagine he was back there.

It was a fatal craving.

Russia had been the worst thing to happen to him but after eight years he got used to the routine, and now he tried to carve Russia into England, to remember how he felt but leave behind the physical pain.

Lucas figured emotional suffering had nothing on a burning iron rod, electrocution, the knives. He may have left those particular implements behind but his thoughts were manifesting themselves into weapons capable of causing equal torture.

The nightmares were muted when he slept on the floor, so he ignored the ache in his muscles -he'd happily put up with a little discomfort to be released from the dreams.

But eventually, they crawled from the mattress across the floor, like ink spreading across the carpet, reaching out a tendril and ripping Lucas from unconsciousness, complete with sweat and even tears after a particularly gruesome flashback.

He was free after eight years but longed for the cold cell floor to curl up on, to fall asleep and not have to resurface.


	16. Chapter 16 - Tessa

Tom hadn't changed a bit. Still handsome, still sharply dressed, still looking as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His plea for help, however, was unfamiliar. He was desperate.

And Tessa found it utterly laughable.

Harry Pearce and his little saints wanted the snake for one last bite, and she wouldn't give them the satisfaction. As much fun as it would be to smirk and judge and toss her hair, kick back her feet in the air-conditioned Grid and demurely sip cups of tea, Tessa was bored of that game now and was adamant to watch them struggle.

Not once had she lost a night's sleep fretting about them, but tonight after returning to her glamorous apartment at a decent hour she was pondering with a glass of wine about Tom's visit.

If she hadn't been running phantom agents she'd still have her desk, the arduous hours, the snivelling colleagues. Now, she had independence and money and spending all those years at Thames House seemed like such a waste of time. She was making her own way now and was far better off than those naive, preened little officers like Zoe and Danny who'd get their heads blown off by bombs before they hit their late twenties, and more cunning than Tom and Harry and Malcolm who'd been sticking by their morals for far too long and not daring to deviate from their integrity lest they discover that they quite like the taste of treachery.

Apparently they desperately needed a good Asian agent. Would she help?

No she bloody wouldn't. Some atrocity could occur on an innocuous London street and Tessa wouldn't bat an eyelid anymore – Tom's speech about defending their country had made her positively nauseous. As long as she had her money, other people's problems were unworthy of her talents.

She should have had Harry's job years and years ago, but she was underestimated and patronised and everyone was so surprised when she turned around and did something about it.

Tom Quinn, with all his confidence and coldness, asking for help.

This really was a strange little world.


	17. Chapter 17 - Sam

**A/N: This one feels different, but I'm not too sure why. I always quite liked Sam and felt she didn't get the character development she deserved.**

Ruth had looked lovely, so lovely that Sam felt a lump in her throat - she was so pleased for her friend who was finally stepping out of her shell and going for it with someone that she really liked. Silk scarf in place, she trotted off with Malcolm ('Giles') to meet the man of her dreams.

This simple delight turned to something more envious, however, as Sam collected her coat and keys from Ruth's table in the hall, ready to lock up. She had spent little over an hour here helping Ruth decide on jewellery and shoes and every other detail for her date but the place felt so oddly familiar and comforting that Sam was tempted to spend the night on the sofa, but thankfully she took a second to contemplate Ruth's horror at an unexpected snoozer whenever she arrived back, particularly if she had a certain guest in tow.

So Sam drove home, and the drive was short and something she was thankful for. She never really took to driving at night – maybe it was because it was more difficult to see and the jewels of headlights dotted the darkness distractingly, or because it was usually cold and rainy and Sam was always appreciative of the warmth of her flat to be enveloped in as soon as possible. Unfortunately, she'd forgotten to leave the heat on today and so she kept her coat wrapped around her shoulders as she pottered around the flat, flicking on the kettle for a warming brew before bed. Her flat was always a welcome piece of normality but tonight it felt nothing but lonely and the bite behind the cold winter night had been particularly prominent despite the coat still draped around her.

She was nearly twenty five years old, sitting alone in a flat in London having spent a day being a spy.

When would it be her turn to get a shot at a real relationship?

Did it seem futile to be pondering such a thing? Probably to Harry who was professional and of course to Adam who was married. But Zoe had Will, and Danny... something in the way his eyes lingered a little too long on Zoe made Sam realise that he was harbouring feelings for her that perhaps she hadn't taken the time to comprehend.

Zoe was taken. Sam was free.

Would Danny realise?

She liked him. Obviously not at the marriage stage, definitely not, but liking him was enough for now and she longed for that feeling to be reciprocated, despite the work complications and the colleague dramas and personal troubles. She wanted to be wanted.

Was that something too difficult for someone like Sam?


	18. Chapter 18 - Ben

**A/N: I was always curious about Zaf & Jo vs. Ben & Jo – I might end up expanding this idea as I like Jo and don't think she got the attention she deserved. In the meantime, apologies for sporadic updates on this story - I do intend to finish it soon.**

It was just before three in the morning (he'd forgotten to take off his watch after crawling into bed at an unforgivable hour) when Ben was woken up. It wasn't the usual car alarm or drunken passerby – there was a soft, sniffling sound coming from the lounge.

Jo was crying.

It was still so dark outside and the radiators were on full blast so it was very tempting to close his eyes and ears and just see how she was in the morning, but Jo didn't cry much and Ben wanted to try and help if he could. He pulled a hoodie over his head and padded out of his room to locate her.

She was sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, face covered by her hands. When she looked up at him, her mascara was streaked down her face and her cheeks were flushed.

"Did I wake you?" she croaked.

"It's okay," Ben replied, kneeling down next to her and wiping a tear that had just escaped from her eye.

"It's silly, really. I'm sorry. It's... it would have been, my friend's birthday today."

"Whose?" he asked softly.

"It doesn't matter, Ben."

"Zaf?" Ben knew that he was Jo's previous roommate and that they had been close, but not much more.

She nodded, biting hard on her lip as more tears spilled silently.

Ben took one of her hands in his and squeezed gently. He wasn't very good at dealing with this world and what it could do to you, not yet. He and Jo were both young but she'd probably seen things and done things that she couldn't say and that he would never know. But at the end of the day, they were still all human with hopes and fears and people they cared about.

He really cared about Jo, but had never stopped to think about who else she might have been with. She and this Zaf might have been friends or more, Ben wasn't sure, but either way they had obviously been close and suddenly he felt horribly intrusive.

"I'm not him, Jo," he murmured. "And I won't try to be."

He wasn't entirely sure what had made him say it but it felt appropriate. He didn't want to leave her crying but didn't want to crowd her.

Ben didn't know how to fix Jo or if she wanted to be fixed, but either way he was powerless to undo her pain.


	19. Chapter 19 - Dimitri

Lucas had killed himself, Harry had narrowly avoided getting the sack and now Tariq was dead on the street.

Dimitri was in shock more than anything when Lucas went off the rails. The side of him that he had experienced was brave and brilliant and it seemed so unfair that he couldn't cope anymore. There was no doubt that Lucas had experienced some horrific events in his life and that death would have seemed like an attractive option, but the team would have helped him:_ he_ would have helped his friend. But maybe he didn't act quickly enough. That was a piece of guilt that Dimitri would never be able to push away.

It was different with Harry: the team was lost without him. Harry in his office with his frown was the one piece of glorious consistency that Dimitri had experienced on the Grid and the very notion of him being kicked out was impossible to fathom. Fortunately he had been allowed to stay, but next time he might not be so lucky. Dimitri quite liked his boss; obviously on a professional level but also on a personal one as Harry was clearly a decent guy who looked out for his team.

Then Tariq. Young, clever, honest. Picked, poisoned, perished.

One loss would lead to sleepless nights. Several in rapid succession robbed Dimitri of sleep almost completely, leaving him with the only option of drinking far too much coffee and slapping a smile on his face.

Dimitri knew it was a roll of the dice for who survived another day in this profession and he also knew that he was trained and ready to face whatever he might - but everyone around him kept getting chosen.

It wasn't fair.

He wasn't craving pain or death but would prefer to put himself at risk to ensure the safety of Erin, Calum, Ruth, Harry. He'd give his life in a second to protect any one of his colleagues, but the clock was ticking for all of them and Dimitri wondered which death would be next, and if it wasn't his own how badly it would affect him this time.

He was professional and approachable and an accepted member of the team, but he still felt that horrible wave of grief and guilt when an officer didn't make it home.

Despite experience, that feeling would never go away.


	20. Chapter 20 - Beth

It had been going too well that Beth cursed herself for not realising sooner that her life at Section D wouldn't last. However, she cursed that bossy bitch Erin Watts far more.

True, she was on her third or fourth glass of sangria but she could drink a whole bloody swimming pool of the stuff and still feel the same way towards that woman. The woman who came to work looking more appropriately dressed for a model shoot with her long locks and lippy, flouncing around with jeans and little jumpers and high heeled boots like she was born for this but Beth bet she'd never even killed someone, never done any real spying at all, and just fancied herself as James Bond's female rival.

When she'd got the sack Beth had scarpered to Barcelona to take up a long-standing deal with a friend. It hadn't been her ideal option but she was suddenly sick of the sight of London with all its promise glittering on the Thames and her naivety in thinking that she could escape from her past life and hide amongst all the sleek buildings and propriety. She was a mercenary through and through and had just spent the last year kidding herself.

Weird though, that a couple of people had made her feel differently. Firstly, there was Lucas (an example of a proper section chief). He didn't stand for any shit and told her what he thought – she was a profiteer who exploited death, violence and misery for money. Obviously she knew that, but no-one had put it that simply before. It also seemed, for the first time, that Beth actually had the option to switch to something else, be a do-gooder for a change and get clean.

Secondly there was Harry. He had encouraged her re-application and after she had saved his life on the Westhouse operation she knew that he was just about beginning to trust her. It was tenuous, yes, but the trust was there, as was the expectation of her. Beth felt like she was capable of being pushed and would flourish when given the chance to really prove herself and develop her talents.

Thirdly, Dimitri. They were both the new kids on the Grid so obviously there was a connection there and she liked how he didn't spout bullshit about patriotic duty and protecting his beloved country but just genuinely loved his job. Also, he was one of those rare men with a combination of good looks and a good personality.

She'd miss him most of all.

But now, it was 8pm on a hot Spanish evening and she was about to earn herself thirty thousand euros. It was only a little assassination – she'd be back at the bar within the hour.

It wasn't as easy this time though. For a split second of insanity she imagined one of the team on the receiving end of the bullet that she had fired and she could taste betrayal no matter how many drinks she poured down her throat afterwards.

Beth could have been better than this.

Instead, she was almost passed out at a bar in the dark, alone, with a heavy wallet but a heavier heart at what she'd had to leave behind.


	21. Chapter 21 - Malcolm

**A/N: Only one more chapter to go after this one! Thanks again to readers and particularly to reviewers who I always love to hear from. **

They had filed out of Adam's flat silently, exchanging glances of equal parts sympathy and awkwardness. Harry had headed off, shoulders sagging, but Ruth had squeezed his hand and Zaf had patted his shoulder and suddenly he couldn't bear the sight of them leaving.

Malcolm went back to the Grid.

It was at an hour so late that he was rather dubious as to whether security would even let him in, but he found himself at his desk a few minutes over twenty after pacing the distance through the almost empty streets to Thames House, his coat tugged by the cold wind that antagonised the leaves and left them strewn about the pavement.

The heating had snapped off but the forgery suite was relatively small and snug anyway so Malcolm removed his coat and folded it carefully, placing it on the back of his chair and glancing around, feeling a lump form in his throat.

Colin's territory. Pens, post-it notes, papers, books, pieces of wire and other odds and ends that he was using for whatever project he had been working on. Half-assembled bugs, a little radio and three different staplers. A couple of empty crisp packets and a box of orange and lime Tic-Tacs.

Malcolm shuffled a little closer, his gaze moving over a notebook which upon closer inspection he deduced to be some form of diary. Feeling horribly intrusive he tried to peel his eyes away, but not before he caught his name.

_Still trying to get this bloody bug to work. No luck so far. I think I'm out of my depth with this new model – I'll ask Malcolm. He'll know what to do. He always does!_

Colin had never got the chance to ask him.

But tonight, Malcolm could answer.

It had taken several hours and a couple of muttered expletives which felt out of character, but Malcolm was expressing anger at this ridiculously difficult piece of technology but also anger at not being able to turn to his friend for help. Finally, as the heater started sighing at 6am, Malcolm placed the bug down triumphantly which was now fully assembled and fully operational.

There was only one thing left to do.

_Turns out, I did know what to do. But you underestimated yourself – you'd done most of the hard work with the wiring already! I consider this to have been a team effort, and I am eternally regretful that it will have been the last chance we had to collaborate. Every day was a pleasure to share the crossword or invent a new gadget with you, Colin, and we're all going to miss you so very much, you kind-hearted, brave, brilliant man._

His hand ached as he scrawled with the biro he found on Colin's desk and after he wiped away a couple of warm tears that had sneaked down his face, there was something rather satisfying about clicking the lid back on, smoothing the page on which both of their handwriting now resided and gently closing the notebook, placing it in the centre of Colin's desk.

No-one enquired as to how Malcolm was feeling after they had all met in Adam's flat or how he had spent the rest of that sad day, and he felt rather glad to remain in his own company for now. But if they had, his answer would have been simple – he was helping out a dear friend with the last opportunity he could.


End file.
